The Blessing
by MrsTater
Summary: AU: "What do you want our little boy to look like? What do you hope he'll be?" After a sonogram, Gabriel and Elle speculate about their baby.


_**A/N: Written for Drabble Challenge #4 at the LJ community Sylelle_Chall, for the prompt The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise we love only the reflection of ourselves in them. (Thomas Merton) Feedback is love. :)**_

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**The Blessing**

You've been looking at the picture all day -- the sonogram photo that caught the baby's legs splayed, clearly displaying that bit (and you do mean a _very_ little bit) of anatomy that identifies your child, indisputably, as a male. On the subway home from the OB-GYN, you were so absorbed in staring at the picture over Elle's shoulder that you missed your stop; once home, you didn't manage to accomplish anything for the rest of the day (except to burn dinner) because you couldn't go longer than five minutes without getting up to have another look with Elle to see if you could distinguish any new details from the black and white, baby-shaped haze.

Now the photo resides on the nightstand on Elle's side of the bed, propped against the lamp. You lie on your side, spooning her, your hands resting on her rounded belly in the hope of feeling the baby -- _your son_, you amend, grinning with equal parts disbelief and pride -- move. (Elle claims to feel a constant fluttering inside her, but if you weren't a human lie detector, you wouldn't believe her, because _you _haven't felt a thing. It's not fair.)

Despite your enhanced hearing, you're only half-listening to Elle's incessant chatter, the same as it's been all day: "I wish this thing had more detail. You'd think with all the technology we have today, we could see what he actually looks like. You know, eye color and stuff. Though I guess he probably isn't swimming around in there with his eyes open. I know babies are usually born blue-eyed, but I hope his will be brown, like yours. God, I hope he doesn't get your eyebrows. It's lucky you turned out not to be a Petrelli, so maybe you're not passing down so much of an eyebrow gene." (For that you pinch the back of her calf with your toes.) "How rare is it to get brown eyes with blonde hair? I think I'd kind of like him to have my hair. Although you have nice hair, when you're not parting it on the side like a dork or combing it back like a douchebag. He'll probably hate us less if he gets my nose, but he'll definitely want your height. I think it's probably better for a boy to mostly take after you. His future girlfriends will definitely want him to have your mouth..."

For the first time since her doctor appointment, Elle takes her eyes off the sonogram photo, tilting her head back for a kiss. You, however, are still intent on the picture of _your son_ and only absently brush your lips across hers.

"Gabriel?" Elle's voice, up till now high and tremulous with excitement, tightens. "You're really quiet tonight. Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?"

"Of course not," you reassure her, tightening your arms around her, and kiss her shoulder before resting your chin on it so you can burrow your face in her hair. "I'm just listening to you. I'm happy you're so happy."

It's the truth. Even after she decided to keep the baby, you've been terrified she would want it -- _him_ -- to be as little like you as possible, repulsed by the thought of bringing a smaller version of you into the world after all you've done -- not least of all to her.

"I want to listen to you, too," Elle says, pushing up on her elbow. You help her get rolled over in her cumbersome state, and, when she's lying facing you, reposition your hands on her belly, pressed against your stomach and pushing you to the edge of the bed. "What do you want our little boy to look like? What do you hope he'll be? Do you want him to take over Gray and Sons? Or be a sharpshooter like his mama? Or do you want him to have a different ability? What do you think would be cool?"

You open your mouth to say what Elle wants to hear, which you've said to her many times today: that you hope he's a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy with his mother's delicate features and smart mouth. But, as you stare over Elle's shoulder at the sonogram image, unable to make out any distinct features beyond head, hands, feet, and of course that tiny bit of manhood, you find you can't get those words out. It seems wrong, now that the knowledge of gender has made this vaguely-termed _baby _a real (albeit tiny) _person_ to you at last, to speculate about what he will be. He already _is_, and there's nothing you can do to change him. Not that you want to change him (as your mother wanted to change you).

Instead, you say, "Himself."

"Himself?"

"I don't want our son to look, or act, or be anyone but himself," you say. "And I don't want him to think I do. I want him to know that I love him, and that I think he's special, no matter who he is or what he can do."

Looking at Elle, you find her eyes down-turned, brimming with a sadness that matches what you feel when you think of all your mother's expectations you could never live up to; watching her rub her belly contemplatively, you know she's having similar thoughts about her father and his experiments and performance pressure as she rubs her belly contemplatively. You cover her hands reassuringly with your own, when suddenly she takes your hands, pressing them tight against the bulge of baby boy so that you feel, for the first time, a tiny fist or foot bump against your palm.

The joy breaking inside you is mirrored on Elle's face. "I think he already does."


End file.
